I.D

I am now the proud bearer of a proper lanyard on which dangles a formal type of identification. It denotes that I have been considered by a Third Party Organisation to be safe, trustworthy, innocuous, honest, decent, truthful, etc, etc.

It has taken nigh on 28 years of my working in the same employment to reach this level of validation.

I had generally not been challenged or accosted in the period prior to my lanyard nor had I excited the interest of neighbourhood watch groups or other have-a-go vigilantes. However, I have had some awkward moments.

On one occasion it was two small, elderly women, clutching onto each other for security and stability who caused me some difficulty and embarassment.

I had been trying to identify the lock-up garage, one out of three blocks of 5, that belonged to the key that I had been given by the Estate Agent for a nice top floor flat in a highly regarded residential area of a well to do market town.

The key was an older type and so I could eliminate half of the garages on account of their newer replacement doors. The remainder were dispersed through the three terraced blocks and I was working methodically on inserting the key and trying the locks on all of these.

I suppose that I must have given to impression of behaving in enough of a suspicious manner to justify the senior citizens asking with some combined momentum "who are you and what are doing?".

Unfortunately, at the very moment of being approached by the pair, I had rattled the door on the garage which it transpired belonged to one of the old ladies and she did not approve.

They squared up to me, only about 5 feet tall both of them but about 6 feet in combined width as old ladies often metabolise into that form with copious amounts of tea and cake.

I stuttered my reason for what appeared to them to be attempted breaking and entering.

It must have sounded like "top flat", "no numbers", "trying doors" in that or any combination or order.

At least one of these responses seemed to pacify the duo and they then, unnecessarily but habitually went into a protracted back story of the owners and occupiers of the top floor flat as old ladies are prone to do when they have cornered a younger man in a captive situation against a garage door.

They eventually pointed out where I needed to be in the courtyard but kept a pair of keen eyes on me as I inserted the key.

It did not work even though it had fitted the lock quite nicely.

I could feel another awkward moment but quickly turning over the key I was able to validate my whole story, identity and purpose by triumphantly throwing up the flimsy metal door.

I slunk into the darkened vehicle bay to wait until my escape route was clear.

In that deep, vacant space the sound of two pairs of sensible outdoor shoes was accentuated before gradually fading away as the ladies shuffled off, no doubt heading for more tea and cake in the safety of their flats.